


my ghost, where'd you go?

by diabolos



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolos/pseuds/diabolos
Summary: She haunts him worse then he should haunt her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit new here, this is my second drabble and am still testing the waters. I'm don't own Marvel merchandise. I want kastle to be in The Punisher, I will sell my left ovary for this.

 

She haunts him worse than he should haunt her.

 

_“That’s it! You’re dead to me!” “I’m already dead.”_

 

He thinks of the trail of mangled bodies, bullet holes in secret meetings, and smell of coffee. How it must remind her of a closed casket, polished tombstones, and withering flowers. He thinks maybe he wants it all to haunt her. Maybe he wants to become the bad aftertaste after an empty cup, a cemetery she can’t run away from, an eventuality, a curse.

 

Instead, he finds her on the sleeve of his coat. Her teasing perfume too weak to linger long but he inhales great gulpfuls cause it helps him remember ink and paper and flowers and-

 

_Like he remembers Maria’s favorite song to dance to. Or Frankie’s most favorite toy truck. Or Lisa’s-[You know where this road leads.]_

 

He’s reading the newspaper when he see’s her name and he thinks, _“Now I know the bullet’s gonna kill me.”_ But it doesn’t. He could hear her voice in his head like a bad hallucination as he reads her article. He reads her article over and over and over-until the paper is too weak for a breeze so he keeps it in his pocket.

 

Her articles keep popping up. He could barely go a week without cleaning up whatever mess she happens to point out (she’s real good at that). There was the politician. The Russian mail-order bride ring. The Syrian refugees and their organs (that was a real mess). That dirty cop who killed Trayvon Crutcher. The doctor with those dead babies. She put him to work. And he was good at it.

 

He seen her once walking down the street and he knew she was walking to The Bulletin. He’s not so much in denial to say it was a coincidence (it wasn’t. He’d known her routine for a while). It was the click of her heels and the wave of her hair and that goddamn pencil skirt (as if she were some plebeian) that really hurt him. God it hurt. Like his lungs couldn’t breathe and his heart was attacked and oh how inside him something roared to get close. To be close.

 

When he looked back up for another glimpse she was gone and world continued to turn. He ponders an exorcism but doesn’t. He might not see her again.

 

And he does. He see’s her again in glass reflections. Wilting peonies. Blue jays returning to the city. He can hear her sometimes spoken through the mouth of some cop on the transmitter. Other moments when he’s caught off guard at the sound of clicking heels.

 

He thinks the bullet’s gonna kill him sometime real soon.

 

Their reunion was expected. Ghosts can only haunt for so long in silence before they become real. It happens out on the docks. In a shipping company warehouse. He’s there cause there's a dozen bullets of his with the Cuban gang henchmen’s name on them. He puts them in his sight before picking them off one by one until the big boss is left and-

 

_Pop!_

 

That wasn’t his gun going off. He finds a ghost standing over a body. The .380 in her hands hardly shake as she puts it down. It’s done its work. Karen’s here cause she’s doing her own work. The huge cargo holds of cocaine stuffed teddy bears attests to that.

 

 _“Thought I said you were dead to me,”_ she says and ghost becomes gun becomes girl.

 

 _“Respectfully, Ma`am, I’d think you’d be happy to see me tonight.”_ Her skin is a sheen grey. Hair so pale in this lighting, nearly white. Her eyes that were bright blue were bleached out and he thinks of wilting flowers and that bluebird he found dead on the sidewalk.

 

 _“Got out of here, Page. I’ll clean this up.”_ She goes but he doesn’t clean up. Only torches the place cause nobody's looking for a .380 bullet among charcoal corpses.

 

He finds her in the early morn`. Sitting on the bench by the water looking every bit the plebeian she pretends to be. But he see’s her now. Ghost turned gun turned girl.

 

A ghost of funeral bouquets, little song birds, and ink stains. A .380 gun with smoke still curling up in still air, blood stained pumps, and the chill. Of sunshine hair, starry freckles, and a pencil skirt as if she’s Lois Lane but fiercer.

  
He thinks the bullet’s gonna kill him soon. As he walks over to her he hopes not today.


End file.
